of love & broken lockets :: be right back

the broken locket was our secret. we’d exchange it monthly. each of us would rotate the interior photo. nestled under silver claw clasps. always gentle. on my rotation, i’d wear it on a silver paperclip chain. around my neck. always on display. on his, he’d conceal & cradle. often choosing to keep it in his right front pocket. along with the pen i gifted him our first christmas. enamel. secured in a cobalt blue velvet-lined box. the pen was a splurge. crimson enamel exterior. thick ball point. black ink. he had just taken a new job in security. we’d laugh at the expected attire. “you’ve gone serious on me,” i joked as he’d button his plaid shirt and knot his navy tie. “the only thing serious about me is my love for you,” he’d reply. always joking. i’d grimace. “so cliché”. he’d blush. without fail. we found the locket at a saturday flea market. i’d been sorting through trays of charms and castaways. on a hunt. for beads to collect, cradle, then string. a hobby turned form of therapy as i’d spend nights waiting for him. his new job paid the bills, but those payments came at a cost. i worked days at the local diner. he was on payroll. most days. nights, too. high demand and high risk. routine rounds. corrections and collections. dark corners. unruly grounds. settle down, he’d promise and reassure. all locks secure. even so, i’d worry. fear and circumstance played with my mind. consumed daydreams. stole time. most days, he’d leave at seven and return a few minutes past nine. sometimes ten. we’d spend weeknights sleeping - always after a decaf and a debrief (a crossword, too) and weekends thrifting - always after a mocha and a starlight mint (a private moment too). decaf. both of us preferred outdoor markets. with no schedules. a pleasant contrast to our weeks on the clock. his eye always better than mine. he’d gather findings in small wicker baskets. i’d string and post them for sale online. he saw the locket before i did. its hinge loose. he eager to fix all that is broken. the front etched of our initials. b & b. bea and benj. neither of us superstitious, or believers in chance, we insisted there was some other meaning. “bed and breakfast” “bread and butter” I laughed. “be right back” he decided. and would thereafter adopt a morning routine. called our small studio apartment a bed and breakfast. Crafted predawn delicacies —bread and butter. then kissed me and whispered “be right back” before leaving for his job. one day, he left and didn’t return. routine rounds. unruly grounds. broken bodies. lockdown. it was his month with the locket. i begged for his clothes but the pocket was empty. i called the station. the hospital. the office. daily. right after making the sheets in our bread and breakfast and consuming my bread and butter. extra slices. extra pats. i knew the numbers by heart. i’d trace his heart on the kitchen table while I waited. “no mam” “nothing miss” “not today”. as the months went on, my calls persisted. tenacious, he’d say. i’d spend mornings beading. weekends too. i took to selling my wares at the local flea. something to do. at night, i’d sort beads. in our broken bed and breakfast. as the weather grew cold, i’d pull on extra socks. his. one night, i grabbed a pair of cotton crews. tucked in the gold rimmed toe was the locket. and a note. “if you find this, don’t be angry baby. boss said no jewels. i love you. i’ll be right back.” & then i realized, he never left. now i wear the locket each day. as i tidy our bed and breakfast. and consume bread and butter. i remain full of him. & blessings.

Flash Issue 6